Mouths

With a faint tremor in his heart, Harry closes his eye, lashes brushing against glass because he's anxiously jammed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. No matter how many times they meet, his nervousness never lessens, and the butterflies in the pit of his stomach never cease fluttering. Sometimes he thinks they've taken up permanent residence there. Once, in a more introspective mood, he likened them to moths - a parallel so very appropriate because he, too, is drawn to the forbidden light that will ultimately destroy his body and char his soul.

Of course, when he told all this to the figure standing opposite him, the only acknowledgement was a twisted smirk and a hasty, careless "shut up."

Such dismissals don't bother Harry as much as they should.

A pale hand spans the distance and alights on his face, cupping his chin with ironic tenderness. Fingers travel to his mouth and, reaching their quarry, trace his slightly trembling lower lip like a treasure map. Harry squeezes his eyelids more tightly together, unconsciously parting his lips with a whispered moan of desire as fingertips graze his teeth before sweeping away, down his jaw and around, to clasp the back of his neck.

A wintry mouth descends upon Harry's hot, open one, and when a vaguely salty tongue pushes insistently against his, it's all Harry can do to keep his knees from crumbling like sandcastles.

He scrambles around for support somewhere behind him - he's against a wall as always, but usually there's an umbrella stand, a portrait frame, a nick in the stone; this time, though, the wall is slippery-smooth and cruel.

So Harry inhales deeply, leans into the kiss, and does the impossible: he raises a palm and tangles his fingers around the baby fine hair that curls around nape of the other's neck.

The effect is immediate: lips freeze, as if hit with an Immobulus charm; the tongue that had been flitting into the secret corners of Harry's mouth and shooting out new flavors as it passed over different taste buds - withdraws. Harry opens his eyes, lashes again hitting the too-close glass like trapped monarchs.

A pair of silver eyes is regarding him with an inscrutable expression, and Harry would say something - really he would - but he hasn't the faintest idea of where to begin. Perhaps this feeling of lost surfaces on his skin, because a moment later the mask on the other boy's face drops, or shatters; a wary air steals into the gray palette, along with something akin to fear.

And Harry doesn't know what's possessed him, is hardly aware of making a conscious decision; but he wraps his hand firmly around the blonde tendrils, places his other hand, palm down, on the chest mere millimeters from his own, and whispers "I'm here."

Draco draws a deep breath, as though it's his last, as though he's trying to absorb every detail of this moment into his lungs and deliver Harry's words to each bronchial tube.

And for the second time that evening, Draco reaches across the distance that separates them. He plucks Harry's glasses off and lets them tumble from his grip to the floor where they clatter before falling silent. A hazy moment and then - everything flies back into focus as mouth meets exquisite mouth, lips pull and tease, tongues tangle together.

Somewhere in his abdomen, Harry feels a million wings disintegrating like spun sugar, or taking flight, it's rather hard to tell - and he smiles into Draco's breath.